Witness Rejection

by David R Lewis

  Crockett smiled, remembering his youthful attempts at shoeing horses. “I am this morning,” he said.

  Bill nodded. “This truck just some kinda cover, huh?”

  “Yeah. I figured another horseshoer coming and going wouldn’t attract much attention.”

  “Nobody’s gonna tell me what all this is about are they.”

  “Better if you don’t know,” Crockett said.

  “Well, me and Joy think quite a bit of Carson. We’ll do what we can. After dark tonight, I’ll move her car out back into a machine shed, cover it with a tarp, and stack some stuff in front of it.”

  Crockett looked down the arena. “How many horses you board here?”

  “Got thirty-five stalls in this barn, twelve more in the little barn. Got two open right now, but that’s all.”

  “Lot of work.”

  “Ever horse gits the stall cleaned ever day, fed twice a day, and ever horse gits feed mixed to fit his particular needs. I keep a close eye on ‘em. Make sure they stay in good shape. That saddle bred you closed up was Carson’s.”

  “I’m not much on society horses,” Crockett said.

  “Me neither, but they’s the ones where the money is. I got a bunch a doctors and lawyers that keep gaited horses here. Only three or four quarter horses. Society bunch kinda looks down on ‘em. I keep all the non-society stock in the small barn, charge ‘em fifty dollars less a month, give ‘em the same service. Hell, I even keep a mule. Big ol’ tiger-legged sumbitch named Sluggo. May be the best piece a workin’ stock on the place. Don’t mention that to any a them Walkin’ Horse lunatics. Might faint dead away.”

  Crockett was about to answer when Carson and a small blond woman walked through the big doors, trailed by two border collies. The minute both dogs were in the barn they split up, one hustling down each bank of stalls, checking for open doors, loose horses and such.

  Bill smiled. “Damn dogs would herd barn swallows if they could reach ‘em,” he said.

  Carson presented Crockett with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and introduced him to Joy. Everybody made small talk for a moment.

  “I hate to be a stick in the mud,” Crockett said, “but we need to get moving. Got your stuff, Carson?”

  “In the tack room.”

  “Let’s get it in the truck and you on the floor. Sun’s up. We gotta shake a leg.”

  Carson’s bags were deposited on the backseat and she hugged Bill and Joy goodbye, thanking them both for their help. Crockett spread a blanket on the rear floorboard and Carson squirmed in and lay down. He added his thanks to hers, started the truck on only the third try, reversed out of the barn, and headed back for Staley Road. After a moment or two, Carson’s uncomfortable voice floated up over the seat back.

  “How long do I have to lay here?”

  “Until I’m sure we’re not being followed.”

  She was quiet for the next ten minutes until Crockett was satisfied. At Cookingham Road and 169 Highway he pulled over and Carson got in the front seat. She grinned at him.

  “Nice hat you got there, Crockett,” she said. “Sort of a Humphrey Bogart meets Hopalong Cassidy effect.”

  “You can still ride in the back, you know.”

  “And driving a horseshoeing truck, too. You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Crockett said.

  “Me, too. I’m really glad you’re helping me. It takes some of the fear away.”

  “Don’t let it all go,” Crockett said. “You’re probably gonna need some before we’re done.”

  Neither one of them said very much until Crockett arrived at Rent-A-Wreck. The place wasn’t open yet. He left the explorer’s keys above the visor, moved Carson and her things into his Ram, and headed back toward Smithville.

  “So,” Crockett said, “what’s your real name?”

  “Mary Lou Shaffer.”

  “Gimme some of your life story, Mary Lou.”

  Carson smiled. “I’m originally from Kalamazoo, Michigan. When I was fifteen, on a dare, I entered the Junior Miss Pageant in my high school. I won. Then I went to the state finals and won that, too. I was awarded some scholarship money. My family was not well off, and they wanted me to go to college, so I started entering all the beauty pageants I could find. Became a real drop-dead-gorgeous competitor. It fed my ego and my school fund. Looking back on it now, it seems I spent half my life with Vaseline on my teeth and my butt and boobs taped inside some swimsuit. I fell for the whole thing, Crockett. Legs, lips, tits and ass. When I was eighteen, I won the Miss Michigan title.”

  “Wow. The objectified American female.”

  “You got that right. I was a superstar until the Miss America Pageant kicked my ass. I even wished for world peace and still didn’t place. Back home I decided to work for a year or so before I started school. I was a big deal. Cut ribbons at new supermarkets, rode in American Legion parades, did PSA’s for local television stations, and modeled for anybody that would pay me to walk down a runway, appear at an auto show, pose on a beach for a boat dealer, do spots for a furniture store, whatever. My agent found me a gig in Miami, Florida, modeling for the Orange Grower’s Association in a series of television commercials. I got caught up in the pseudo-celebrity thing, blew off school, and stayed in Miami a lot longer than I should have.”

  “It happens,” Crockett said.

  “It sure happened to me,” Carson said. “My contract expired and I got myself a local agent. About three months after the Orange Growers thing, I was making not enough money and going to more than enough parties. Lots of good-looking men with no brains, and lots of cocaine with no conscience. Then I got a small speaking role on Miami Vice.”

  “Ah. Don Johnson at his best.”

  “I like this Crockett a lot better than that Crockett,” Carson said.

  Crockett preened. “Really?”

  Carson smiled. “Yeah. This one is much nicer and a lot taller.”

  “His wardrobe was better than mine,” Crockett said.

  “At nineteen, things like that were much more important to me than they are now. I met Phil at a party at one of the producer’s houses.”

  “Phil. Your ex-husband?”

  “Right. He was older and very smooth. He had a lot of important friends, lots of money, and with the help of various controlled substances, swept me off my feet. We were married a couple of weeks after I turned twenty. I was a trophy wife. All the clothes and cars I wanted. All the drugs I could handle. Fast boats, fast friends, fast lifestyle. I didn’t view it that way at the time, but essentially I was paid to look good, smile pretty, make men envy him, do anything he asked of me, and stay out of the way when I wasn’t on display. Pretty heady stuff for a Junior Miss from Kalamazoo.”

  “You bet.”

  “The next few years aren’t much more than a blur. Then my dad died. I went back home and stayed for nearly two months. My mother was appalled at what I had become and, to use her words, jerked a knot in my tail. The fog cleared and I realized what I had let happen to myself. The woman that went back to Miami was not the girl that had left. I registered at a community college, stopped using, and started putting my life back together. The Barbie doll was gone.”

  Crockett snorted. “And hubby didn’t like that very much, did he?”

  “Hubby no longer had what he had bought and paid for,” Carson said. “He rode along for a while, waiting for me to come to his senses, but it was too late. I had already come to mine. I started to take note of things about his business life, the unsavory characters he worked with and for, the amount of money that passed through his hands. I began to sell off some of the stuff he bought for me, building up a nest egg of my own, knowing the relationship wasn’t going to last. Then one night he had a couple of friends over. Everybody but me got pretty fried, and he wanted to do the wife swapping thing again. I was way past that kind of bullshit, and I told him so. He broke my jaw, my wrist, and three of my ribs. Beat the hell out of me while the other couple watched. Grea
t entertainment. On the way to the hospital he told me that if I wanted to live, I fell down the stairs. I was scared to death and went along with him.”

  Carson paused for a moment and stared out of the windshield while she collected herself.

  “When I got out of the hospital he was sickeningly nice to me. Apologized over and over again, but always with the undertone that if I had just done what was expected of me nothing would have happened. He was very sorry for doing me all that damage, but it was really my fault. It would never happen again, as long as I was reasonable. It was then I realized how truly pathetic he was. He didn’t deal in love, he dealt in control. Our entire relationship was constructed to satisfy his need for power. It was an emotional, spiritual, and physical rape that lasted for years. It was then I accelerated the building of my nest egg. It was then I began to plan a way out. I dropped out of college and became a good girl again, only this time I paid attention. When I had enough information, after I had listened to enough phone calls and peeked through enough keyholes, I went to the local FBI office. Boy, were they glad to see me.”

  Crockett grinned. “I bet they were,” he said.

  Carson nodded. “Over the next year I bugged the house, his car and his office. I photocopied papers and records, I went through his trash, I wore a wire, I took pictures, I set the bastard up. A lot of what I got they couldn’t directly use because of lawyer-client privilege, but a lot they could. After the indictment, they hustled me out of the way. As soon as my testimony at his trial was over, I became Carson, no middle name, Bailey. They bought me partial ownership in The Better Cheddar on the Plaza, gave me a whole new identity and background, and shipped me off to Kansas City. Believe me, Crockett. Kansas City is a long way from Miami.”

  “How’d you come up with Carson Bailey, Mary Lou?”

  “My grandmother’s maiden name was Carson. My great grandmother’s was Bailey.”

  “And now you think your ex is after you?”

  “Why else would anybody be following me? He threatened my life right in court.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Stood up in the middle of the courtroom and screamed at me. Called me a fucking cunt and said I was dead if it was the last thing he ever did.”

  “Huh! I bet the judge loved that.”

  “She had to recess while they settled him down.”

  They continued on for a few moments in silence, until Crockett turned into the Parking lot of Lowman’s Café in Smithville. Carson looked around after he stopped.

  “What’s this?”

  Crockett smiled. “Anybody that has been through what you’ve been through, deserves the best biscuits and gravy she’s ever had.”

  “I’ve never had biscuits and gravy at all.”

  “This could be dangerous,” Crockett said. “Try and maintain control, Mary Lou. We ain’t in Miami today.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Roomies

  “That was really good,” Carson said, slamming her door as Crockett slid in behind the

  wheel and started the engine. “Now what?”

  “Now we go stash you in my bus.”

  “Your bus?”

  “Actually it’s not mine. I’m just using it for a while. A motorhome.”

  “You live in a motorhome?”

  “For another couple of months,” Crockett said. “Then I’ll get my cabin. We’ll be okay in the bus for a few days. Even if the bad guys got my license number, I haven’t listed a change of address.”

  “What bad guys?”

  “The guy that had your shop staked out, for one. He was with us when we went to that Italian place for lunch.”

  “Wow. I didn’t even notice anybody.”

  “That’s because you’re not a highly trained operative in counter-espionage and intelligence.”

  “And you are?”

  “I got a C-plus in Spy Finding 101. I was the second best in my row.”

  Carson played along. “I’m impressed.”

  Crockett squared his shoulders and expanded his chest. “It’s second nature to a master agent like myself,” he said. “Of course it’s easier when the bad guys wear zoot suits, snap brim hats, and flip silver dollars, but they’re getting away from that. He didn’t look much like a tough guy-serial killer, bloodthirsty enforcer, Mafia goombah, either. Probably FBI.”

  “The FBI is watching me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Jesus, Crockett! Why?”

  “That’s an interesting question. I’m also curious as to how the Feebies knew where to find you. The U.S. Marshal Service takes care of that. It’s none of the FBI’s business. Maybe I’ll ask.”

  “You’re going to ask them?”

  “More or less.”

  Carson looked out the side window and never said word until they arrived at his place.

  Issuing little yips of excitement, Dundee cavorted around the truck as Crockett parked beside the Pequod. Carson showed no fear of a strange canine as she climbed out of the truck. The dog retreated to Crockett and sat in front of him, nearly touching his feet. Her posture was rigid. Crockett smiled as Carson walked toward them.

  “Stop there,” he said, when she was about ten feet away. Crockett walked around the dog, stood beside Carson, and slipped an arm around her shoulders. Dundee visibly relaxed. “Her name’s Dundee,” Crockett went on, releasing Carson. “Call her. Ask her to shake hands.”

  The meeting went as planned and Dundee followed Crockett and Carson inside, immediately burying her nose in Nudge’s water dish. The cat himself lounged on the sofa. Carson gave a start.

  “Whoa!”

  “That’s Nudge,” Crockett said. “He likes women. I taught him everything he knows.”

  “He’s huge!”

  The cat slow-blinked at Carson and stretched as he lay on his side. He was half as long as the couch.

  “That’s the biggest cat I ever saw. What’s next? You got a bear in the bedroom?”

  Crockett grinned. “Nope. That’s it. You have now met all the denizens of Camp Crockett.”

  “This is cozy,” Carson said, looking around the interior of the bus.

  “Full of amenities,” Crockett said, taking coffee out of the cabinet. “Washer-dryer, bathroom with a skylight in the shower, bedroom big enough for a Munchkin orgy, steering wheel, windshield wipers, horn. All the comforts of home.”

  He took down the grinder and filled it with beans. The resulting cacophony precluded conversation for a moment. When the grinding was done, Carson spoke up again.

  “This would be fine for a footloose and fancy-free man about town.”

  “Man about trees,” Crockett said, fussing with the coffee maker. “No pool. Sorry. Do have a hot tub, though.”

  “I noticed it. I could really use a soak. May I?”

  “Help yourself. I have it turned down fairly low and the screen house roof shades it, so you should be pretty comfortable. I’ll get your bags out of the truck. Bathroom is at the end of the hall just before your bedroom.”

  “My bedroom? Where are you going to sleep?”

  “Out here in the recliner. I sleep in it about half the time anyway. It’s better for my back.”

  “I remember Ruby talking about your back once. You’d been shot or something?”

  “Ancient history,” Crockett said, and turned away to go outside.

  When he came back in, Carson had two cups, some Half & Half, and sugar out on the dinette table. He carried her bags back to the bedroom and put them on the floor.

  “The closet on the left of the vanity is cleared out for you,” Crockett said, as he reentered the living area, “as are two shelves in the medicine cabinet. I know it’s pretty cramped compared to what you must be used to, but…”

  “This is just fine,” Carson said, taking a seat in the dinette. “This is more than fine. It’s very kind of you to let me inflict myself upon you like this. We don’t even know each other, and yet you are allowing me to disrupt your life so completely. You’re a
very nice man.”

  “Have I told you about the time I saved that boat load of Hungarian orphans from drowning in the St. Charles River?”

  Carson smiled. “The coffee smells good,” she said.

  An hour later, Carson was relaxing in the hot tub as Crockett worked in the kitchen, preparing some tuna salad and unsuccessfully resisting the urge to spy on his guest, wearing a red sports bra and white terrycloth shorts, as she floated blissfully in the swirling water. He filled a glass with iced green tea flavored with a touch of blueberry and carried it out to the tub. Carson opened one eye as he entered the screen house.

  “A modicum of libation, m’dear,” he said in his best W.C. Fields, “constructed from mysterious herbs plucked by native nubile wenches from the scenic shores of Lake Titticaca.”

  Carson smiled and accepted the tea. “You’re going to spoil me.”

  “The object of the exercise,” Crockett said, returning her smile.

  “How long am I going to be here?”

  “Just two or three days. I’m going to move you into town as soon as I can set it up. If these guys are really trying to keep track of you, they’ll show up here pretty soon. I don’t want you around when that happens.”

  “What town are you going to move me into?”

  Crockett smiled. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “You wouldn’t know that, would you? Little burg called Hartrick. I’m friends with the police chief there. I also have a pal that lives in an immense apartment above the post office. She’ll be getting off work pretty soon so I can call her.”

  “She?”

  “Her name’s Satin. Nice lady. She has weekends off. I’ll see if she can’t come pick you up Friday afternoon.”

  “Satin,” Carson said. “You and she are just friends?”

  “Just friends.”

  “Just friends, now?”

  “Yeah.

  “Good. I don’t want to get in the way of anything.”

  Crockett’s reply was interrupted by the muffled sound of his phone ringing. “Enjoy your tea,” he said. I made a call while you were in the tub. This could be some info we need.”